


Pleural Space

by Dienda



Category: True Detective
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Scars, post-carcosa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dienda/pseuds/Dienda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marty only remembered the harsh light in his eyes and the two figures above him swearing and barking orders at each other, handling medical instruments he couldn’t see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleural Space

The dream came once, when Marty was still in the hospital, the night before he was released. He’d been off the really strong drugs for a couple of days now and, without the chemicals, his sleep was mostly fitful and filled with nightmares. He’d expected as much, what he and Rust had gone through wasn’t the kind of thing one could just shrug off and never think about again. But Marty had failed to anticipate this particular dream.

The white, bright lightbulb above his head made his eyes water as the pain in his chest bloomed and took root deep inside, somewhere beyond the path of Childress’ hatchet. He tried to squirm away from the pain, tried to call ou,t but his body was strapped down, held still by clamp-like hands, and his voice rippled and died in a useless wheeze. His heart hammered in his chest and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fucking breathe.

Marty woke up trashing and panting, the shrill beeping of his heart monitor bouncing around the dark hospital room. He opened his mouth and inhaled big gulps of air and reached up to touch the broken skin beneath the bandage. His fingers hit the wound and sent a jolt of pain all the way down to his hip but the rough texture of the gown confirmed he was finally awake.

The door swung open and a wide-eyed nurse stepped into the room. “You alright there, Mister Hart? We heard the alarm from your monitor.”

Marty shook his head, embarrassed, and tried to laugh it off. “Just had a bad dream, that’s all.”

“Oh,” she nodded, voice soft and understanding. “Want me to leave the nightlight on?”

He shook his head again, moved his hand from the bandage to the side of his chest, snuck a finger under the fabric of the hospital robe and poked at a tender spot just under his armpit. “It’s fine, just gonna go back to sleep.”

“You sure?” she squinted at the monitor and glanced down at her watch.

Marty wondered if they’d let him wheel himself down to Rust’s room, see if he was awake; the other man was on heavier drugs though, so it was unlikely. Still, Marty wanted to ask. Instead, he smiled at the nurse and nodded. “Yeah, it’s still early.”

“Alright. You call us if you need anything.” And she disappeared down the hall, shoes squeaking behind the closed door.

He fell back asleep. Eventually.

 

 

It happened again when he was home alone, before he sprung Rust from the hospital. He woke up with a gasp, drenched in sweat, and silently grateful that at least it wasn’t another fucking dream about an endless maze of twigs that he couldn’t unravel while a familiar voice kept shouting his name.

 

 

When Rust came to stay with him they made a routine out of waking each other up on bad nights. At first, Rust could only call Marty’s name and tug at his clothes, too weak to shake him awake; Marty would try to rouse Rust with words alone, too afraid to hurt him with a wrong touch. Sometimes they talked about their nightmares, low whispers sailing soft on the indigo surface of darkness. Sometimes they turned the TV on and let the flickering lights fill the hours ‘til the morning. Sometimes they just laid still and drifted back to sleep to each other’s silence.

 

 

Marty was writhing and clawing at his own chest, wheezing loudly like he was suffocating. Rust reached out and tried to pry the other man’s arm down, had him almost pinned to the bed before Marty’s eyes snapped open. “Hey, man. You’re dreaming.”

“I can’t―” Marty gasped but his voice broke into another huff, covered his eyes with a trembling hand until his breathing slowed down. “I’m alright, Rust. I’m fine.”

Rust settled back against the pillow but narrowed his eyes at his partner. In the few moths they’d been living together in Marty’s house, sharing a bed, they’d discussed their nightmares from time to time, like somehow talking about Carcosa could break the spell that made them return to its somber halls night after night. But Rust knew this dream was different, he’d learn to identify it after the first couple of times Marty woke up with a shuddering breath, sounding like a man being choked to death.

“Is it drowning?” he asked in a rough murmur. Perhaps the dream came from before, from something that’d happened in that ten-year gulf they’d spent apart.

Marty dropped his arm and let out a dejected chuckle. He shook his head. He remained silent, staring at the ceiling for such a long time Rust thought he wouldn’t answer at all.

“It’s―when they got us out of that place.” Marty cleared his throat, rolled to his side so he was facing Rust. “I remember the flare and the sirens but I don’t―I guess I blacked out for a while.” He scowled at the darkness, at the blank space in his memory. “Didn’t notice when they took you away. When they loaded me into the ambulance. Was in and out most of the ride, like I wasn’t unconscious but I wasn’t really awake, y’know. But then I―there was this pain, like my fucking chest was on fire, inside.” He pushed his closed fist against his ribs. “I had an oxygen mask on but couldn’t get air in, couldn’t breathe. I tried to tell them, grab at ‘em, ‘til one of the EMTs―he touched my neck and it felt wrong, Rust.”

Rust felt his stomach drop to his feet. “What d’you mean?”

“Felt like my fucking throat wasn’t where it’s supposed to be, like it was lopsided.” Marty only remembered the harsh light in his eyes and the two figures above him swearing and barking orders at each other, handling medical instruments he couldn’t see. “Paramedics did something, I don’t know, but it got better almost instantly.” He touched the scar on his chest through the thin fabric of his wifebeater. “Doc explained later that, uhm, wound like this can cause a pneumo― something.” Marty waved his hand like the term wasn’t important. “There was air in my chest comin’ in the wrong way, had to get it out so I could breathe again.” He sighed. “Don’t know why my mind keeps fucking fixating on it, think we can all agree it was probably the least traumatic part of that fucking shitshow.”

There was a moment of silence before Marty could hear Rust shifting and turning to click the bedside lamp on. The soft amber light flood the room, gilding Rust’s long hair like a tangled halo.

“What the hell, Marty. Are you telling me your fucking lungs collapsed on the way to the hospital?”

“Shit.” Marty squinted at the sudden brightness. “No. well, just the one, Rust. Goddammit, turn that off.”

“You could’ve fucking died.” Rust’s jaw clenched. When the flare crossed the sky beyond the throne room Rust’d given up. He’d let go of the last fucking string keeping him tied to this earth because at least he’d kept Childress from hurting Marty too bad; help was on its way and Marty would be alright, would walk away from this shit. It never occurred to him that there could be even the smallest chance he’d live while Marty died.

_“You’re_ telling me. Jesus. It sure hurt like a sonofabitch but it wasn’t that bad, Rust. EMTs fixed it pretty quick, thank fucking God. Just had a tube comin’ outta my goddamned armpit for a couple of days.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Rust glowered at him.

Marty shrugged. “You were asleep.”

Rust thought being in a fucking coma wasn’t exactly the same as being asleep but he wasn’t about to start splitting hairs, at least not about himself. “After.”

“Don’t know, Rust. I had more important shit to worry about." Marty scoffed. "I mean I―even as it was happening, I didn’t think I’d die. We were out of there. I was more worried about you bleeding out before I could see you. After that, I was too busy jailbreaking your ass and making sure you didn’t come apart in my fucking hands.”

“Jesus, Martin.” Rust pushed the covers down and started tugging at the other man’s shirt. “Show me.”

Marty had seem Rust’s scar a hundred times, had cleaned the wound and changed the bandages in those first weeks after the hospital, but Rust had only seen Marty’s scar a handful of times, passing glimpses when the man walked back to the bedroom after a shower. It started right under Marty’s collarbone, went down for about four inches, it wasn’t so different from his own scar, a line of pink puckered tissue, angrier at the seam.

Marty lifted his arm then, showed him the tiny white line just below his armpit, barely wider than Rust’s fingertip, already fading into nothing.

“There, see? Just a scar.” He leaned over Rust, turned the lamp off. “Can we go back to sleep now?”

“The fuck―”

Marty reached out to touch Rust’s arm. This wasn’t his worst nightmare, by far. “I’m fine, Rust. We both are.”

 


End file.
